


Mercy

by THA_THUMPP



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Albert Wesker Survives, And lots of reminiscing, Basically, Bitterness, Broken Chris, Broken Wesker, Drunk Chris Redfield, Emotional Constipation, Filling in the 6-month gap after Chris lost his memory, God Complex, M/M, May have Sexual Content in a future chapter, Memory Loss, Post Resident Evil 5, Pre-Resident Evil 6, Regret, Self-Reflection, The aftermath of December 24 2012 - Edonia Eastern Europe, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-04 00:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2903057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THA_THUMPP/pseuds/THA_THUMPP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Albert Wesker comes out of hiding in Eastern Europe just so he can lay his judging eyes upon poor, deluded Chris, who's been reduced to nothing but a drunkard. But the moment Wesker spots him, simply <em>looking</em> isn't enough...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Be prepared to feel bad for Wesker. Not really. Maybe. Just read and find out already. ;D
> 
> Please Note: This story is **NOT** related to our other Biohazard | Resident Evil work - [Gods Never Die](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1587146/chapters/3372839). Mercy is a plot unto itself about a time where two broken men find each other again and have a chance to start over... Yep. It's as sappy as it sounds. Enjoy.

Albert Wesker had no humanity left for mercy. It was an emotion he relinquished back in S.T.A.R.S., one he willfully replaced for a great deal of power. After all, there was no such place for something so trivial where he was going. He only needed that which made him stronger than his foes. Forgiveness would’ve simply been seen as a weakness and Wesker wasn’t _weak_.

He was just blindsided by his own ego, a trait of his he’d nurtured over time to suit his personal goals. Power-hungry, that’s what Wesker was and that’s who he strove to be. Powerful – the one and only being righteous enough to separate those feeble from the strong, the chaff from the wheat.

Simply put, God.

Wesker saw himself as deserving that right in count of the long decades he worked from the shadows and played his hand at managing operations behind the scenes, which was why he wanted to reshape the world in his image, to mold mankind into what he envisioned as _rightful heirs_ to a new breed of evolution.

But seeing and achieving – as Wesker had learned throughout his years of rising in rank – were two very different ideologies and in the end something had to give. His former self was the price he paid back during the Raccoon City Incident of ‘98, and every day after he didn’t think he had anything else left to lose.

That was before he learned about Oswell E. Spencer’s Wesker Project and was said to be _manufactured_.

Wesker glowered at the mere recollection of the word. It tasted bitter inside his mouth and seemed to fester like a sore on the tip of his tongue the longer he dwelled on it in silence. Recalling Spencer’s ill-health didn’t help, either. It only furthered his aversion, and he curled his lip with a low snarl when reminding himself of what the old man had been reduced to because of mortality.

_Was I ever human?_

Against Wesker’s distaste of the thought, it was something that curiously crossed his mind now and then, like it mattered. But he knew it didn’t, and nowadays he was more or less under the impression that he was simply hanging on to the sentiment of it, coerced by man’s tailored definition of instinct. Anger. Wrath. Contempt. Retribution.

Wesker looked down at his hands, which were characteristically hidden beneath his tar-colored gloves. He no longer had any connection with Uroboros, but on a subconscious level he could still feel the virus rushing through his body and imagine it replicating under his skin and wiggling through his network of veins like a wild soul.

With a scowl, Wesker touched his face in remembrance of the volcano and rockets. It was such a shame his plans ended as they did, like a stock market crash, and with the benefit of hindsight he was almost questioning himself if it was worth it. If it was really _worth_ the frustration of adding another blemish to his already numerous list of mistimed actions and past schemes of trying to purge the world of its ignorant cretins and their impurity.

Although perhaps _blemish_ was too dulcet a word to use for such objectionable occasions.

In relation to personal standards, however, Wesker wouldn’t let himself use any other. Half of the reason was out of spite, the other half was that he didn’t quite see his mistakes as failures. They were simply opportunities which left room for improvement, for perfection, and Wesker was beginning to think that what he had here in Eastern Europe was the _perfect_ plan.

As if smug of his ingeniousness, Wesker took his sunglasses off and looked around.

From where he was standing on one of the townhouse rooftops, the village appeared moderately quaint among the fresh flurries of snow, some of which were starting to powder his lashes and roost on the shoulders of his latest ebony coat like soft kisses.

Wesker didn’t pay the bitterness any mind, though. He was too busy admiring the view with a smirk and contemplating how easy it would be to destroy this place in less than seven minutes if he wanted to let off some steam. Only, he didn’t divulge any farther than that, not when he didn’t come here to start a war.

No. He came to _observe_ , and his eyes reflected nothing but that intention as he finally set them on the constant hindrance in his life … his sole purpose for coming out of hiding after Africa.

Chris Redfield.

Wesker hummed at the sight, knowing that fate had nothing to do with their to-be reunion. It was all thanks to careful planning, and he watched patiently as Chris passed beneath him on the street, crunching the snowfall almost discordantly before taking a shortcut through a nearby alley.

Averse to drawing attention to himself just yet, Wesker followed Chris’ movements with the turn of his head, feeling a certain passion rekindle in his chest.

He wouldn’t have called it indignation but it was something within the same context, particularly with how Chris emblematically looked shorter than when they last met. But maybe that was more directed towards the man’s hair and how he’d toned down a bit and lost some of the brawn in his shoulders.

Whichever the case, the manner in which Chris fumbled around in the alley was the same, like he’d lost his way, and Wesker cockled his chin. But not in a jest.

Oh no, he wasn’t here to rouse himself with how pathetic he thought Chris looked now. He just wanted to get a different angle, and made to move closer after resetting his sunglasses back on his nose in a sharp antic, as if to protect his eyes from the actual truth regarding the situation.

His _jealousy_. Because that’s what it really was… that’s what it’d been all along.

Chris Redfield stood for everything that Wesker had ever dreamed of. Strength. Chris obtained it on his own. He didn’t resort to any virus or sell his soul to an autocratic corporation to do so, either. It came naturally, his talent, which was one of the many reasons why Wesker considered him his _best man_ all those years ago.

Wesker growled in dark amusement. How was it that at the time it was said it was meant as an insult, but now it sounded more like a compliment? Unable to answer his own question, Wesker left it abaft with his bootprints on the rooftop and jumped down onto the street below, landing in the snow of the alleyway—

right behind Chris.

Undeterred by the deficiency of Uroboros in his bloodstream, the subtleness of Wesker’s descent was almost too good to be true. Chris didn’t seem to hear a thing, allowing Wesker the chance to merely stalk his ex-subordinate’s back for a second or two before taking a dare to close the space between them and make himself known. But just as he drew his arm out, Chris stumbled like he was dizzy, sending Wesker into blind reflex.

On impulse – and much to his embarrassment – he caught Chris by the elbow, instantly feeling a pang of something other than arrogance in the process, primarily after hearing the man slur something about  _‘_ _get yer hands off’a me’_ before trying to swat him away without a look.

In response to the gesture, Wesker immediately let go and nearly tottered where he stood, not really sure what had just washed over his conscience right then. Pity? That the greatest foe he’d ever faced and had the pleasure of standing on equal footing had been reduced to a mullered mess?

Of course, only Wesker’s European upbringing would call it that. If he had to reduce himself to Western terminology he’d simply say _drunken stupor_ , seeing as he could virtually taste the smell of whiskey pervading from Chris’ sunburned coat despite still looking at the man’s back.

Nevertheless, Wesker was quick to reform his composure with a sneer. Being the self-seeking maniac he was, it would’ve been out of character to stay taken aback, especially since he was already visualizing the look on Chris’ face – how it was going to melt into complete and utter shock when finding out that his nemesis was very much alive, and Wesker kept his vanity in mind as he opened his mouth to purr his favorite word.

“Chris.”

Chris stiffened at the voice, and the left side of Wesker’s lips warped higher after hearing the man grunt something along the lines of acknowledgement.

Although, the longer Wesker held his asymmetrical grin the more it dropped with the belief that something was amiss. After all, it wasn’t like Chris to react so… slothfully. Normally, he’d be throwing a punch over his shoulder right about now or slandering Wesker’s surname in vain, not looking around the alley like he didn’t fully comprehend that it was _he_ who was being addressed.

Wesker’s frown deepened. Was he missing something here?

Openly, he couldn’t fathom the idea that he _was_ or even consider that the bigger part of the picture was much more crucial than it looked. But unfortunately it was just that. Wesker found that out the very moment Chris finally turned around to face him with an expression he’d never seen before in his life.

Oblivion.

_“Who the hell’re you?”_


	2. Revelation

Wesker was a mastermind of a good many things. In spirit and reputation, hegemony was at the top of his list and with it he could manipulate people by the thousands with command alone. He was infamous for the corners and ears his voice could reach just as he was infamous for his ability to hide in plain sight, for his facility to quake cities and oceans where they sat without having to set a single foot inside them, and for the very notion of his pre-eminence, which was something he only emphasized to steer gazes away from what he was most terrible at.

Because as good as he was, foresight wasn’t one of his most flattering qualities.

It could very well be argued that it was responsible for the ruination of most, if not all, of his plans and every inch of groundwork he put towards global saturation, but those who sought to be argumentative knew better than to run their mouths.

Death came swiftly to those who trod the headlines of the black market with defamation, for miscalculation was as black a sheep as kindness was to Wesker’s wolf-like persona. He didn’t need reminders. He solely needed recognition, and there was honestly nothing his superciliousness benefited from more than standing before his adversaries with the upper hand, with a card up his sleeve and his chin high, like every soul he encountered should feel honored that he even exhausted a single second on them.

He’d exhausted plenty of seconds on Chris in the past, most turning into minutes, hours, days, and conclusively years, but none for naught. Every event that ensued between them Wesker found horribly grating but oddly pleasurable. Every conventional standard of time he wasted during their meets became an instant lost but another gained. His revenge turned into his ambition and his ambition quickly turned into an obsession, a craze that eventually exposed how much delight he took in every moment they shared together.

Just not _this_ moment.

No. Standing here before his former PM, in the middle of Eastern Europe, and a ghost town masked beneath inches of snow, Wesker wasn’t delighted in the least. He felt drably isolated, like he possessed no power over Chris anymore, no sway of authority he once had the satisfaction of rubbing in the man’s face like a brag. It was as if Chris had been washed clean of every sin committed against him… every burden a God had shouldered upon a mortal.

Wesker curled his upper lip, baring his teeth in a subtle expression of wretchedness. Chris hadn’t intended them so, but his words were debasing, profane, and irksome. They chagrined Wesker to every degree, making him feel like he was being looked at as though he was invisible, that he was glass with no solid form or shape, _water_ , and like an ocean the fury consumed him, tensing the veins in his arms buried beneath his coat and in his clenched fists by his sides.

Last week, as he had daringly hunkered down in the Republic of Edonia during the invasion of bio-organic weapons that were being disseminated by a neo-corporation, he had observed via binoculars as Chris was dragged from the battlefield and taken to a local hospital. However, at the time he had only assumed that his ex-subordinate was tussled around in the field, or something of similar notion to conflict, seeing as he didn’t have the contentment of witnessing the cause and could only marvel at the effect, never daring to think outside the product of war.

After all, warfare was continual, dangerous and enigmatic in all aspects, and Chris undoubtedly looked like a man who had participated in his fair share of combat, through his build and with his skills to match it. On no account had Wesker ever imagined such a turnout as what stood drunkenly before him. Keen on praise and regard, he always thought that someone as rebellious and hardheaded as Chris was capable of picking himself back up no matter how many pieces he was broken into, but yet, as it would seem, credit again was given where it wasn’t due and fate had other plans for the two of them, showing its face in the form of—

 _Amnesia._ Wesker hissed the term in his head as though he would an enemy’s name. He had discerned Chris’ missing block of interrelated memories as such the very minute the man shut his mouth after his demanding question of _‘who the hell’re you_ , _’_ which was quite fast, and now left Wesker with a query of his own as Chris and he simply stared at one another like complete strangers.

_What happened to you?_

That was something Wesker was itching to know, the curiosity eating away at him like an infection, but he just couldn’t bring himself to ask and only stiffened his shoulders and tamed his lips as he tried working around an acceptable reply.

 _I’m_ “Your…” _Ex-captain. Greatest nemesis. Worst nightmare. Ghost._

Wesker’s throat felt tight with irresolution. Usually he had a comeback for everything, but right now his mind was void, leaving Chris to fill in the blanks with an answer based on the phonetic sound of the word left hanging in the winter air: a contracted statement of ‘you are.’

“Nothin’ but leftovers, buddy.” Chris slurred vociferously as he motioned at himself with his half-empty booze bottle like he was hinting that he had very little to offer if Wesker was here to rob him.

Wesker snorted at the mere thought. To cheat someone as unprepared as Chris was now would be unsatisfying and unexciting, like bullying a child. One punch and Chris would fall over without resistance. One kick and Chris would fly the distance of two alleys. There was no fun to be had in that, especially since Chris already appeared to be worn and bruised from an apparent fight in the tavern he was just thrown out of. The split lip a small reminder of the trouble that would always follow him and an ideal depiction of his status in society as of now.

“You look like a stray dog.” Wesker said tactlessly, stoical in expression, as he sought to undertake the charisma of an opinionated stranger. For conversation’s sake.

Chris scoffed at the comment as he glanced down at himself with an unsteady sway, then back at Wesker. “You’re one to talk.”

Albeit he was amnesic, it was almost endearing that Chris’ current mental condition hadn’t affected his brazen tongue and Wesker smirked at the fire still burning in his ex-subordinate’s voice, a weak ember but the remnants of a flame nonetheless.

Chris eyed the smug look on Wesker’s face suspiciously. “You some kinda creeper?”

Wesker almost bent over backwards in frustration. If Chris was any morsel of his former self he would’ve already figured that the sneer merely meant appreciation… too bad he wasn’t. My, how inconvenient this conversation was getting.

“No.” Wesker shook his head once, decisively. “I’m waiting for someone.” He clarified. Though that was more like _was_ _waiting_ now.

“Who?”

Wesker took a steadying breath as he reminisced something clever. “An old friend.” He mused quietly.

Chris grunted questionably, like he didn’t quite hear the reply, but Wesker wasn’t about to repeat himself and sighed crossly instead.

“Never mind… It doesn’t matter.”

“Then why tell me in the first place?” Chris asked.

“You remind me so much of him.” Wesker said growlingly but every bit truthful, a tone he amazingly spoke in on more than one occasion. Only this time he was leaving his superego out of it… and what did Chris do?

He laughed at him.

It was the same blasphemous snigger he had made when Wesker had presented the T-002 Tyrant back at the Arklay Laboratory that July in ‘98. The situation wasn’t anywhere near being similar, but once again Wesker felt small where he stood and small in his beliefs. Better yet, small before Chris, like this was another experiment gone horribly wrong and was about to blow up in his face, and Wesker glared at Chris from behind his deep, black lenses, eyes glowing orange with restrained yet overwrought antagonism.

Chris couldn’t see the color, of course, but he was receptive to the silence that followed the fierce stare and the flurries that were now burning cold on whatever skin wasn’t covered by his jacket. His ears, his nose, his knuckles. All were places even the warmest whiskey couldn’t melt, and Chris ditched the bottle on the spot before he rubbed his hands together and pointed towards the mouth of the alley, behind Wesker.

“Look, if you’re not plannin’ on buyin’ me a drink…” Chris started to walk past him as he spoke. “Then get the hell outta here, pal.”

Their shoulders met briefly. Chris made sure they did, like he was purposely looking to start something, like he was thinking that this was all he was good for nowadays – fighting and drinking – and Wesker subconsciously rolled his shoulder to create a stronger impact than the original initiation. Chris stopped at the blow, and Wesker wasn’t the least bit surprised when a fist was swung in response.

As spry as it was though, it didn’t land, but Wesker considered striking back regardless, very much tempted indeed, but that was before Chris suddenly passed out in a bolt from the blue, falling flush against his chest like the intent itself was forceful enough.

Like a chimney, Wesker stood straight and still as feelings of repugnance and nostalgia swept at him like brooms and clawed at him like mice all at once. He thought about the past just about as hard as he thought about dropping Chris to the ground, to leave the body to the snow and let it disappear under a blanket of white as unkind as the Antarctic. He thought and thought, and after a little more reflection, he acted in conjunction with deliberation.

No sooner than there was a sound from Chris, a groan even in his passed out state, Wesker mindlessly let him fall to the ground like he was a trammel, a restriction to freedom. The body concluded with a crunchy plop among the delicate snow, and Wesker assumed he was feeling relief in those twenty yards he walked away from Chris, but really he wasn’t. It was revelation, an understanding that he was letting emotion take a hold, not his usual phlegmatic approach, and as much as it pained Wesker to stop, the simple image of Chris remaining as that one stone left unturned was far too great to ignore.

If he let Chris die today, he wouldn’t have the pleasure of defeating him, to _control_ how his greatest setback died. Nature would lend a hand in stealing that pleasure. Nature, not him, and Wesker couldn’t have that. He wouldn’t _stand_ for that.

His general scorn for human life was no match against his drive for supremacy. It was second rate to domination, ascendancy topping all, and in a sharp turn Wesker stalked his way right back to where he had discarded Chris while swooned by that impression and heaved the lug up by the arm, who was heavier than he remembered. But no matter. Inner criticism was of no use to him now. He needed to solely focus in terms of value, in the moment, and play this by ear.

Because amnesic or not, Chris could still prove to be a valuable asset to him yet.


End file.
